


Fever Flowers

by mimsical



Series: talent verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Illnesses, M/M, Magical Realism, Music, Poison, Slow Burn, implied family problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7079911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimsical/pseuds/mimsical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he was poisoned, Enjolras received a string of well-wishers, some more annoying than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> probably could have expanded this, but i'm happy with it as is, so i figured I'd go ahead and post it.
> 
> p.s. why does ao3 always mess up my italics...

After he was poisoned, Enjolras received a string of well-wishers, some more annoying than others. There were a couple that seemed convinced on his impending death (false), but most just seemed to be on eggshells, as if it had been his mind damaged rather than his body. (He could thank his poisoner for that — whoever they were had chosen illness rather than incapacitation. Perhaps they didn’t have a Talent for poison.) By nine days in, most of the visitors had trickled off, leaving only his close friends. On day ten Grantaire made an appearance. He was his usual self (hard to read, fidgety, intense), but he, too, was different.

“You’ll live, though?” he asked bluntly, picking through the collection of wilting flowers.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, watching him. “Just sick for a while, most likely.”

Grantaire nodded. He’d managed to pick out which of the bouquets were arranged by Talented and was shredding one of the flowers.

“I thought you, at least, would act normal,” Enjolras said after a pause. Not complaining, commenting.

“Normal?” Grantaire echoed with an edged smile.

“Everyone’s acting like I’m on death’s door,” Enjolras clarified. “And I’m clearly not.”

“Anymore,” Grantaire said. “I personally do remember you vomiting blood.”

“It’s a scare tactic,” Enjolras said. “Whoever did this is trying to change our minds, and I won’t be swayed. I’ll be sick for a while, yeah, but —”

“But whatever, it’s not like anyone was worried or anything.” Grantaire plucked one of the living flowers and set it down on top of the clock. “You could be a little nicer about it.”

“Okay, _yes_ , it was scary, but I’m okay.” Enjolras was annoyed. “I have a right to feel—”

“Oh, you do?” Grantaire said with an eye roll.

“Stop trying to invalidate me!” Enjolras snapped.

“ _I’m_ invalidating _you_?” Grantaire pressed back. “Seems to me there’s a lot of people with a ‘right’ to their own feelings, too.”

“What’s your problem?” He’d said that one before. “Why did you come here if you’re just going to be—”

Combeferre stuck his head in. “Are you two really fighting right now?” he asked. “Grantaire, I only let you in because you said you could behave.”

“Hey,” Grantaire said, mild again. “He’s the one who wanted someone to act normal around him.”

Enjolras was caught completely off-guard by that answer, and from the look Combeferre cast him, it showed on his face.

“Careful what you wish for,” Grantaire finished, with a quick glance over, finally making eye contact.

Combeferre sighed in annoyance. “If I could, I’d make you both take lessons in communication.” He stepped back into the hallway and shut the door.

“How long are you going to be laid up?” Grantaire asked.

“Uh…” Enjolras was still a little thrown. “Couple weeks? Or months, maybe.”

“Hm,” Grantaire said. “Can I visit you again sometimes?”

Enjolras picked his words. “Sure you can. I wouldn’t want it to be too boring around here.”

Grantaire half-nodded and half-shrugged. “Okay. See you, then.” He tossed a final decapitated flower into his lap and beat a quick exit.

* * *

True to his word, Grantaire dropped by again that weekend. He brought a bouquet of sorts, too.

“Origami flowers?” Enjolras questioned, turning one over to see how the two pieces of paper came together. He was in the chair this time, not lying down in bed. He felt somewhat more in control this way.

“Why not?” Grantaire was twisting a piece of paper into a stem. “Still pretty and they’ll last longer.” He considered what he had pinched between his fingers. “More color variety, too.” He shrugged. “Courfeyrac told us to keep you busy. Want to learn?”

“I guess,” Enjolras said, not bothering to disguise the dubiousness he felt.

“Well, don’t get too excited,” Grantaire said. “Can I sit?” He eyed the room as if it might magically provide another chair.

“Just sit there.” Enjolras indicated his sickbed, reluctant to give up his higher ground.

Grantaire did sit, albeit with a brief hesitation. “So, do you know anything about the wise art of paper folding?”

“A little,” Enjolras said. “My sister had a phase.”

“That’s better than nothing,” Grantaire said. He slid a few colors out of his stack and handed the rest of the paper over. Enjolras set most of them down on the bedside table, keeping a yellow square. At least Grantaire hadn’t asked about his family, despite Enjolras accidentally giving him an opening.

Grantaire left him some printed out instructions when he made to leave half an hour of discomfort later. On the way out he paused. “CD player?” he asked.

“It’s supposed to be soothing.”

“Do you even have any good music?” Grantaire seemed to doubt his friends’ music choices.

“Should soothing music be good music?” Enjolras was wondering where he was going with this.

“I’ll burn you a CD or two,” Grantaire said. “If my computer still does that.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said. “Thank you.”

And out the door Grantaire went.

* * *

Joly picked through his CDs in the background of Enjolras’s conversation with Bossuet. “These CDs are terrible,” he said. “This one’s literally titled ‘soothing aka depressing or boring music’.”

“I haven’t listened to it yet,” Enjolras said. “Most of them are classical music from Marius.”

“Ugh,” Joly said. He considered another one. “This one is apparently, ‘probably not all that soothing’. Promising, maybe. Who’s it from?”

“Grantaire gave me a couple,” he said. “Maybe him?”

Bossuet abruptly stopped googling facts about wombats. “He came over?”

“Yes?” Enjolras was taken aback by the scrutiny.

“I told you,” Joly said, pleased. “Remember? I convinced him.”

“Yeah, apparently he’s come _twice_ ,” Bossuet said. He and Joly were communicating something silently.

“Three,” Enjolras said. They both looked over. “Three times,” he clarified. “I mean, not for long visits, but we’re not fighting, if that’s what you mean.”

“Add it to your notes, doctor,” Bossuet said. “Successfully had conversations. Didn’t sabotage anything.”

“I’m not trying to be that kind of doctor,” Joly said, but he sounded pleased. “Let’s not mention this to him, though.”

“True,” Bossuet said. “No need to scare him off.”

Enjolras, sensing that he was no longer a part of this conversation, picked at his blankets.

“Cool!” Joly said, turning back to him. “Anyway, R’s music’s pretty trustworthy. He… has a good sense of it.” He popped the CD in and knocked his cane against the chair. “Switch me, dude, I need to sit.”

Bossuet obligingly stood up and went to turn down the blastingly loud music that Enjolras had cringed at. “Hey, I know this song.”

“Wow,” Joly said brightly. “I’m totally neglecting my friend duties. You want some news? Or a blog update?”

“Both,” Enjolras said, letting them move on as the sound of bells came from the stereo. “Is this… a Christmas carol?”

“No, something experimental, probably,” Joly said. “Well, the blog’s great. Lots of viewers on the weekly updates. The ones about you, I mean. But we’re still getting more traffic since you were poisoned. Good thing you collapsed publically, or nobody would care.” He shrugged. “Courfeyrac’s great, though. Stirs people up. We’re lucky to have a communications Talent, huh?”

Enjolras nodded. That was not at all why he valued Courfeyrac.

“In other news,” Bossuet prompted.

“Uh, a guilty police officer acquitted, continued political turmoil, a scandal with some celebrity having a Talentless child… Marius and Cosette set a date for their wedding.” Joly frowned as he tried to remember everything.

“Thank you for the updates,” Enjolras said politely.

“Sure thing,” Joly said. “Do you want to do anything else?”

“Let’s just listen to all this music I’ve been avoiding,” Enjolras suggested.

“Ooh,” Joly said. “Bossuet, man the volume.”

“I’m already doing that,” Bossuet grumbled, but obligingly fiddled with the knobs again.

* * *

Grantaire reappeared a week later. He paused in the doorway and evaluated him. “You’re sick.”

Enjolras wished to put the pillow over his face. Instead he beckoned Grantaire into the room. When he was settled in the chair with his bag at his feet, Enjolras said, “I feel terrible.”

“That sucks,” Grantaire said with some sympathy. “Headache?”

“No,” he said. “Body aches. And my hand keeps spasming.” He held up his left one demonstratively, even though it was currently still.

Grantaire eyed his hand. “You’ll take the poisoner to court, right?”

“If he’s ever found, yeah.” Enjolras rubbed a hand over his face. “Which he won’t be. Nobody cares if someone Talentless gets hurt. So, if we do find him, someone will take him to court for me, especially if I’m not well enough.”

Grantaire was quiet for a minute.

“Why did Bossuet think it’s a big deal that you brought me music?” Enjolras asked, changing the subject.

He got an eye roll in response. “I was reluctant to visit you — thought maybe we weren’t on good enough terms. But, I don’t know, music’s kind of weird with me.” Grantaire was being fidgety again, messing with the pen he’d picked up off the nightstand.

“Is it your Talent?” Enjolras asked.

“Wow, personal,” Grantaire snapped, and then deflated. “No. I guess you might as well know. I don’t have one.”

Shit. “You should bring more music,” Enjolras said hastily, to alleviate the tension radiating off of him. “Better than Marius’s best of Mozart, the eight-disk collection.”

“Man, I hate Mozart,” Grantaire said, evidently relieved. “He’s so obnoxious — you know he wrote all his music in ink and never had to go back and edit anything? I would hate to have met him. Well, no, in person I probably would’ve been in silent awe of him, but from a distance he’s super annoying.” He paused to recollect his thoughts. “But, yes, I can bring more music, if you want.”

Enjolras had become distracted from the conversation by a slow wave of pain.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked.

“Sorry,” he said. “Uh, maybe you could come back tomorrow or something.” He tried to move his fingers through a spasm. “I’m—”

“Yeah, of course,” Grantaire said. “I hope you feel better.” He did sound concerned, probably because Enjolras had shut his eyes and curled up into a ball to brace himself. He listened to Grantaire let himself out. His last thought on that was that he’d met plenty of Talentless people, but none of them had ever become one of his friends. Then he lost his concentration on that for a while. He slept on and off through the afternoon and night and woke exhausted.

“No visitors today,” Combeferre said firmly. “And no, you can’t have your phone. You’ll work yourself up over something again.”

“Didn’t I learn the first time?” Enjolras complained.

“I doubt it.” Combeferre was texting someone on his own phone, like the cruel person he secretly was. “Stop pouting.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras said, _not_ complained.

Combeferre finally looked up, and he looked serious enough that Enjolras stopped trying to banter with his friend. “I know I told you that the poison wouldn’t kill you, but… But it still could, if you get too weak.”

Enjolras was the one that looked away this time. “I think I told Grantaire to come back today.”

“I’ll let him know,” Combeferre said. “Feuilly and Prouvaire wanted to see you, too. Maybe this weekend.”

It was only Tuesday. Once Combeferre left him to rest again, he put a pillow over his face and tried not to feel sorry for himself. Strange, not to know how much he saw his friends until he couldn’t. He wasn’t angry with Combeferre, of course not. He could never really be angry with his friend who had stuck with him through every up and down of their lives, but he wished he had something more productive to feel than bitterness towards the imaginary figure of his poisoner, who was likely more Talented and therefore socially accepted than Enjolras would ever be.

He slept again, woke more rested than last time but with a fever to a stack of CDs. Combeferre must have left them for him. And Grantaire must have still come by, even without being able to see him. It was cheering, and, oddly, pleasing. Enjolras made use of his CD player again to drown out his spinning thoughts with the melodic strains of a language he was pretty sure was something Slavic.

* * *

“Did you know Feuilly and Prouvaire are together?” Enjolras asked eventually into the quiet room.

Grantaire looked up from the textbook he had open across his lap. “Yeah. But only because I know Jehan well enough to tell, and because Feuilly sleeps at my apartment on the weekends.” He shrugged and readjusted his crossed feet from where he’d tucked them under each other. “It’s more obvious close-up.”

Enjolras considered that and glanced at the door.

“I don’t think Combeferre will swoop down wrathfully if we talk a little,” Grantaire said, following his train of thought.

Fair enough. “How could you tell?”

Grantaire drummed his pen against the book thoughtfully. “I mean, they’re both pretty subtle. Jehan gets flustered, though. Talks too fast, changes the subject. Feuilly’s the opposite. He acts too normal.” He frowned. “I always thought they were well-suited to each other. They’re both very… quiet, until they feel comfortable enough to be passionate.”

“True,” Enjolras said, and let him lapse back into silence. He read a little farther into his book before asking another question. “What are you reading?”

“Stuff for class,” Grantaire said absently. “Something I got out of the library.”

He stopped there, so Enjolras pushed further. “What class?”

“Paradigms.” Grantaire looked up this time. “History trends in art.”

“Art,” Enjolras echoed. “Not music?”

“Uh, no,” Grantaire said with a wince. “Art’s easy. Music’s complicated.”

He steered the subject away from that. “What kinds of art do you like?”

“None of the flowery crap. Or Jehan’s skulls and shadowy strolls through metaphorical forests.” He flipped the pen through his fingers. “I had a collage phase most recently, but it got old. Maybe the modern stuff — illustrator, pixlr sort of stuff. It’s fun.”

“So you don’t paint,” Enjolras guessed.

“Boring,” he agreed. “I’ll sketch in the right mood, but paint takes forever and smells weird.” He squinted over at him. “This is generally where people gushingly ask if I can draw them.”

“If you wanted to I wouldn’t care,” Enjolras said with a shrug. “But I wasn’t going to _gush_.”

Grantaire laughed, then tried to cover his mouth so he wouldn’t be too loud. “Go read your book,” he said. “Can’t you see I’m studying?”

“I’m literally reading something I’m read six times before,” Enjolras complained. “Not counting the times I’ve read random sections.”

“You’re a re-reader?” Grantaire asked. “I can’t do that. I buy books by the dozen and then foist them off on other people if they’re terrible, or donate them to the cause if they’re decent.”

“Where do you donate them to?” Enjolras asked with a frown.

“The Foster Kids Bettering Themselves Repository,” Grantaire said. “AKA Feuilly. Either he’s caught on or he’s wondering why everyone complains about the books I give them. Or, I guess, he hates my taste in books and is just too polite to say anything.”

Enjolras was startled by this kindness.

“Jehan likes the tragically sexist ones,” Grantaire was continuing. “I think a lot of those books have become blackout poetry.” He slid his bookmark into his section of the textbook. “Which is another art form I have no patience for, sadly. I think it’s too pretty for my style.”

“Hm,” Enjolras said, for lack of a better statement.

“Hm what?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras blinked at that. “Hm nothing. I was thinking.”

“What about?”

There was no way he could say what he was actually thinking without bringing up his (previous) bad opinion of Grantaire. He stared at the pattern on the quilt and wrinkled his forehead in thought.

“What is it?” Grantaire was hesitating now.

He went ahead and said a version of his sudden understanding that he’d likely been unfair to him. “I wish we’d been friends before.”

He’d guessed right. Grantaire was very still for a second, like Enjolras might forget about him if he didn’t move at all. Then he was trying to be normal again. “Are we friends now?”

“I think so,” Enjolras said. “But maybe it’s just the low grade fever talking.” He really wanted to change the subject.

“Oh,” Grantaire said quietly. “Well, I don’t mind being friends, if that’s what you mean. Arguing with you sometimes is entertaining, but always is—” He hesitated. “Tiring.”

“Glad we sorted that out,” Enjolras said. “I hate talking about my feelings, though, so let’s talk about something else. How’s the blog?”

“The—the official blog?” He’d clearly thrown Grantaire for a loop.

“Yes,” Enjolras confirmed. “That blog.”

“Full of...feelings.” Grantaire ran a finger along the binding of the book and then fluttered the pages. “Do you want to see it?”

“Can I?” he asked, definitely too eagerly.

“Well…” Grantaire paused. “You’re not supposed to. Will you get sicker?”

“Not by reading a blog.” Enjolras shrugged. “If I get too…” he scrambled for the word, “riled up about something, or if I’m not resting, that’s what is bad, because I get tired too quickly.”

“I’ll show you one entry, then,” Grantaire said. “And not a political one.” He had his phone out on top of his now-closed textbook. “Did you ever see the one we did after you were poisoned?”

“No.” Enjolras snagged the extra pillow off the side of the bed to sit up more and tucked his feet up, mimicking Grantaire’s crossed legs.

“I’ll read it.” Grantaire scrolled through something. “Uh, let me—okay, found it. Combeferre and Courfeyrac wrote this one together, before Courf took over so Combeferre could be your doctor. Since he’s, you know.” He skipped acknowledging Combeferre’s Talent. “Anyway. ‘A Long Day For Friends’ is the title. It goes — ‘This will be brief, to acknowledge the outpouring of support we’ve been hearing for Enjolras. We can’t tell you how grateful we are to all of you and to everyone who has been helping. We’re fairly sure he’s going to live, as you’ve all wished for, though it might be a while before he’s back on his feet. Also, we’re trying to limit what Enjolras called “a truly intense amount of pollen,” so please, wait to send more flowers until this batch dies, or else they will start bursting through the windows.’ Then it adds, ‘If you have any information about what happened or the whereabouts of the poisoner, please, please come forward so nothing like this will happen again.’” Grantaire glanced up. “Pretty obvious who wrote the title. Only Courfeyrac would throw an _ami_ pun into a medical update. Did you say that? About the flowers?”

“I barely remember the first few days,” Enjolras said. “I don’t even remember collapsing… But the flowers gave Joly allergies, so I probably did say something like that. It was pretty clever to throw that it. Then it seems like I’m fine.” He picked at the hem of the ratty sweatpants Courfeyrac had lent him. “I think I remember them writing that,” he added slowly. “Courfeyrac wrote most of it because Combeferre was—” crying “—overwhelmed by everything.”

Grantaire was watching him quietly. The start of a headache was murmuring behind his eyes, so he reached for the water bottle on the bedside table.

“It’s been really hard on everybody, hasn’t it?”

After a pause, Grantaire nodded. “You really don’t remember?”

He shrugged. “I remember… we were at a demonstration. I talked to Bahorel about getting in contact with a woman we met about… something. I know I was noticing something was wrong because my eyesight was blurry. I kept blinking a lot. And then… and then it’s not clear anymore. I don’t know how I got here.” He cast a glance around at the plain walls. “I mean, I’ve been here before. This is Combeferre’s spare room. But I don’t remember if I went to the hospital, or if we came here, or how, if we took a taxi or borrowed a car or something else.” He searched his memories. “That’s about it. I also don’t remember the worst of being sick all that well.”

“You’re lucky,” Grantaire said. “You could easily have died. I guess you still could.”

“If the poison does something Combeferre isn't expecting.” Enjolras sighed. “I am lucky. Very terribly lucky.” He shut his eyes for a moment. “And pretty pissed.”

“About being poisoned?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I don’t mean to complain.” He rubbed his forehead, brushed an errant strand of his hair out of his face. “I think you being here has actually been really helpful to Combeferre. He’s getting sick of me because I hate being ill and it makes me annoying.”

“I really can’t picture that,” Grantaire said.

“Me being annoying?” Enjolras half-smiled. “I’m sure you can’t.”

“Getting sick of it,” Grantaire clarified. “You’re plenty annoying, but.” He cut himself off. “Well, never mind.”

Enjolras didn’t push it. He didn’t bother examining whatever was turning over his the back of his mind, either. “Do me a favor?” he asked instead.

“Of course.” Grantaire looked up again.

“Will you text Prouvaire for me?”

Grantaire slid his phone over. “Send it yourself. No dictation necessary.”

He typed the message quickly. _This is enjolras sos code red aka can you possibly stop by sometime this week I would appreciate it._ Send.

Grantaire had flipped open the book again and Enjolras took the hint. He dropped the phone into the pages and continued his own reading until Grantaire had to go.

* * *

“SOS Code Red?” Jean Prouvaire didn’t seem too alarmed yet, but possibly concerned.

“Red for emotional crisis looming.” Enjolras briefly marvelled at how genuinely terrible he was feeling today, and that he probably wasn’t thinking too clearly as a result.

“Oh dear.” Prouvaire plunked down in the chair. “You have to tell me everything.”

“There’s a lot of everything.” Enjolras was pretty sure he could hear a fly buzzing at the window. It was very annoying.

“Tell me a little bit, then, or the most important part.” Legs slung over the arm of the chair, Prouvaire flashed an encouraging smile.

“Who…” Enjolras clutched at the dimmest of his memories. “Who was there when I collapsed at the demonstration? Was… Who caught me when I passed out?”

Prouvaire was frowning at the question. “Well, we were all there. You were standing with Courfeyrac, so he caught you. Joly and Grantaire were really close, too. Joly figured out it was poison, and had Grantaire hold you up so you would still be able to breath when you started throwing up. Does that help?”

Enjolras sighed. “I think I’m in love,” he said. “I think. Or maybe not. It’s sudden.”

Prouvaire’s eyes went wide. “Well, well.”

“Right?” Enjolras asked despairingly. “I’ve been trying not to think about it, but it keeps happening. I’m not sure he knows that I want to be friends, because I kept not wanting to talk about it. But he’s very confusing, so maybe I’m wrong?” He paused. “I told you it was a crisis.”

Prouvaire put up two hands to slow him down. “Wait, who? Who are we talking about?”

Hadn’t he said it? “Grantaire,” Enjolras said. “He visits me.”

Prouvaire slowly brought both hands back and collapsed dramatically with a groan. “ _You_ ,” he said. “You’re _in love_ with Grantaire.”

“I said that already.” Enjolras mimicked Prouvaire’s drama and covered his eyes. “It’s a problem.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Prouvaire said. “Shit, man. You have to let him know.”

“I have to tell him?” Enjolras was alarmed by this idea.

“Absolutely.” Prouvaire leveled him a serious look. “Any secret-keeping could ruin it. He’s very sensitive to secrecy, always picks up on it.”

“But do—do you think—” The fly went quiet, then began buzzing again. “Do you think he would—”

“Ask and find out,” Prouvaire suggested firmly. “Honesty, honesty, Enjolras. Communication.”

“Ugh,” he said. “How practical.” He cast around the room. “I kept—he made me this origami flower, and I kept it.” He swung his feet over the side of the bed to go get it and the whole room spun. He threw an arm out as if to brace himself. His head swam, heat building. Was he on the ground? Prouvaire was speaking, frantic. Enjolras found his knees by touch and tried to move but couldn't seem to.

“Enjolras, oh my god,” Prouvaire was saying. The door slammed, distantly. The buzzing in his ears was everywhere, in his eyes, in his teeth. Combeferre’s familiar hands were in his hair, tilting his head to check his pupils.

“—residual—”

“—is he—”

“Courfeyrac—”

“—sick, maybe, or weakening over—”

“—pass the phone to Joly, okay?”

“I have to—”

“—going to call—”

“—fine, but—”

The words were fragmenting. Enjolras didn’t try to make sense of them. Instead, he calmly and rationally decided to go to sleep.

* * *

“He’s waking up,” Combeferre said. Who was he talking to? Enjolras forced himself to open his eyes.

Three faces immediately. Combeferre, the speaker, holding a blood pressure cuff like a weapon. Joly, trying to shove a thermometer into his mouth. Enjolras obligingly stuck out his tongue for him. Third, Courfeyrac, clutching at Combeferre’s arm, completely white-lipped.

Enjolras, forgetting about the thermometer, mumbled something confusing.

“Shh.” Joly took it away as it beeped. “101.3. Lower than before.”

Relief on Courfeyrac’s face. Someone was touching his arm, but Enjolras didn’t quite have the willpower to match everything together. “What happened?” he asked, more clearly.

“You just have to wait it out,” Combeferre said. “The same. No medicines, since they react with the residual poison. I think the last bit is burning its way out of you right now.” He took in Enjolras’s confusion. “You’ll be very sick tonight,” he clarified, “but this is the end of it, maybe.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said. At least the buzzing had gone away, though it had left him feeling fuzzy inside. Every part of him ached in a very familiar way.

“Try to sleep through it,” Joly advised. “It’s going to suck, probably.”

Enjolras registered that they were preparing to leave. “Where are you going?”

“You’re stable,” Combeferre said. “You don’t need all four of us hovering over you.” He looked at the ground. “So, unless there’s an emergency again…”

Enjolras was able to collect his alarm fast enough to express it. His friends filed out. At this point he did some mental math and realized that the pressure on his arm hadn’t decreased. This was helped by Grantaire sliding into view.

“You really look like shit,” he observed helpfully.

“Deep-fried,” Enjolras agreed. “You’re staying?”

“Someone should.” Grantaire looked down at the blanket. “If you’re okay with it.”

Enjolras distinctly remembered his conversation with Prouvaire. “Of course I am,” he said. Combeferre had let Grantaire be the one to stay with him. “What time is it?”

“Half past six-ish,” Grantaire said. He looked off. Strained. “Are you hungry?”

“Definitely not.” His stomach twisted at the thought of putting anything in it.

“Tired?”

“A little.” He tugged the blankets up around himself more tightly. “Will you tell me something else? If I ask?”

“Possibly.” Grantaire wouldn’t quite look at him. “Depends on the question.”

“Is there a chance I’m going to die tonight?”

The question decorated the air between them for a second. Courfeyrac had looked back at him as he left the room, scared and desperate.

“You’re very weak,” Grantaire said quietly.

“That’s not an answer.” Something other than fever was licking his insides.

Grantaire raised his eyes. “Yes, you could die. Or have such a high fever that you sustain brain damage. Or the poison could still be there and this will continue.”

Enjolras nodded. “If any of that happens,” he said, “how… will you be upset?”

“Enjolras…” Grantaire seemed atypically lost for words. “Yes, I would be upset.” His carefully neutral words were shattered by whatever emotion he was biting back behind them.

“Then—” Enjolras stopped, considered, started again. “Then come lie down.” He slid back against the wall. Left an empty stretch of bed and didn’t look away. Waited.

“Why?” Grantaire asked, barely audible.

“To remind me I have reasons to stay,” Enjolras said, “and because I can be selfish. I don’t want to be alone.”

Grantaire took off his shoes and slid them against the wall behind the chair. Enjolras lifted the covers and he slipped under them. Their knees pressed together.

“Tell me something,” Enjolras said. “Something happy.” He shut his eyes.

Grantaire shifted his head onto the pillow. “Marius and Cosette asked me to play for their wedding.”

“Really?” Enjolras pressed immediately.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “And that’s pretty flattering, I guess, when they could have any Talented asshole come in and do it.”

“You’ll have to play for me sometime,” Enjolras said. “I bet you’re just as good.”

Grantaire was about as far away as he could get on the tiny bed, so Enjolras reached across to touch his face. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment at the touch.

“What are you doing?” he asked in too low a voice.

“Admiring you,” Enjolras said.

“Liar,” Grantaire said. “What are you thinking?”

“A lot of things.” The room was in semi-darkness. It matched the haze in his head. Behind Grantaire his eyes found a tiny flash of color. The only origami flower he'd kept. “You’re astonishing.”

Grantaire moved closer, draped an arm across him. “Shh,” he said. “Try to sleep, okay?”

“You’re…” Enjolras floundered for a word. He tucked his head into him more and let it rest. He dozed a little, woke into another kind of half-light. He held onto Grantaire, kicked and kicked until the blankets were gone, trembled like an aspen until Grantaire wrapped him up again, first in his hoodie, then in the blankets, and then in his own body. Enjolras tried to tell him something, something important and earth-shaking and world-crumbling that garbled and twisted until Grantaire shushed him again. He cried, too, against Grantaire’s warm, living skin when his stomach started writhing. He chased sleep up and down his pillow, too hot and too chilled to get comfortable, every position sending a different cramp echoing through him. Each minute was a year, every hour another second of misery.

Bent over the trashcan again at four in the morning, hot metal on his tongue, Grantaire holding his hair and rubbing his back and whispering _please don’t leave_ when Enjolras couldn’t find the strength to lift his head back onto the pillow.

An hour later, as the light behind the curtain paled, his fever broke.


End file.
